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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/26003455">La Chanson de Prévert</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/heroiccaptain/pseuds/heroiccaptain'>heroiccaptain</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Tinker Tailor Soldier Spy - All Media Types</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Angst, Drinking to Cope, Flashbacks, Heartbroken Spy, Inspired by Music, M/M, Mild Suicidal Thoughts, Post-Canon, jim prideaux listens to music morosely, sad spy moment</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-08-20</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-08-20</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-06 03:54:34</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Teen And Up Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>1,768</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/26003455</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/heroiccaptain/pseuds/heroiccaptain</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>A morose song starts to play in his trailer. Jim Prideaux has memories of the past as he drinks vodka.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Bill Haydon/Jim Prideaux, Jim Prideaux &amp; Bill Roach</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>2</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>28</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>La Chanson de Prévert</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>The first time I listened to La chanson de Prévert, I could picture Jim Prideaux listening to it morosely in his trailer and I knew it belonged to him so I had to write this. </p>
<p>You can listen to the song here: https://youtu.be/fdcZ6y5gomQ</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p> </p>
<p>
  <span>He sat in his trailer, right after the Friday's class was over. The fifth grade had been a tough crowd that day, what made Jim apply a hard punishment to the Robinson kid by the start, but regretting his decision before the class ended, eventually let him go play with the others. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Roach had followed him until the Dip as usual. After a good amount of questions answered shortly and a “Go have some dinner now, Jumbo”, the young boy left his adored teacher, disappearing in the english fog that surrounded the evening. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Stretching his neck from side to side, Jim Prideaux flinched when the pain in his shoulder began to bother. It always bothered as soon as he sat down, tired from another day of lecturing. It always bothered more when the night arrived. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>The silent nights in the trailer were a contrast to the noisy days of children chattering in class and cheering over a goal on the field. Too silent. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He reached the lower shelf, searching for his Mahler record. Not that Mahler was the warmest of companies, but at least it harmonized well with his vodka and afterwards with his coffee. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Placing the record on the record player, he adjusted the needle carefully. The sound that echoed on the small trailer wasn’t the sound of Mahler’s symphony, however.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“How the hell Serge Gainsbourg’s record had gone there?”, he wondered right before concluding he probably switched the cases in one of those weekends mid September he spent way too drunk. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>He sighted. It was too late. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>A song he knew too well had started to play. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>Oh je voudrais tant que tu te souviennes</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>Cette chanson était la tienne</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>C'était ta préférée je crois</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>Qu'elle est de Prévert et Kosma</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>Et chaque fois les feuilles mortes</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>Te rappelle à mon souvenir</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>Jour après jour les amours mortes</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>N'en finissent pas de mourir...</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>All he could do was to pour the first glass of vodka and face the inevitable melody of memories.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>— I haven’t got one — he had just answered to the handsome man who approached him at the club, asking about his dilemma. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>— Then what are you doing here? </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Jim grinned. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>The handsome man stared at him, studying from head to toe. Jim looked away, shily. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>—And you don’t have a drink. May I offer you one, mister...? </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>How could he ever say no? He didn’t even know his name, but in mere seconds he felt a comfort of years. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>— Prideaux — he started to move towards the counter, a demonstration of his answer to the invite. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>— Haydon. Bill Haydon. Pri-deaux — he pronounced in a perfect french accent, as he walked side by side with Jim — I knew there was something French about you. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>[...] </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>— Jim, I don’t think I ever drank this much on a single night.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>— Coming from you, I doubt that.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>The sounds of their laughter echoed in Jim’s dorm room, mixing in the air with the smoke coming from the cigarretes. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>One night, two glasses of scotch, a bottle of vodka, two doses of cognac and Bill was still asking if he had some Porto. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>They talked and talked until dawn, about everything they knew about the world, every place they had been, everything they had done before meeting one another. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>What was it, really, now that he thought of it? A life before that very first night? A life before Bill?  </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Jim poured himself another glass of vodka while the song continued to play.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>Et peu à peu je m'indiffère</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>À cela il n'est rien à faire</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>Car chaque fois les feuilles mortes</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>Te rappelle à mon souvenir</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>Jour après jour les amours mortes</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>N'en finissent pas de mourir... </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>The room was completely silent that evening, one week after they met. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Bill’s face was close to his. Heartbeats increased. Two boys, aware of what that was, unsure of what to do, completely sure of what they felt. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Jim’s eyes were fixed in Bill’s. Words weren’t necessary. At that point, he felt like Bill could read him as casually as he read the morning newspaper, just by looking at his eyes. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Bill’s hands were warm against his cold neck and as he leaned closer, he closed his eyes the moment his lips brushed Bill’s slowly, then passionately and then-</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>It was tender. The way Bill unbottoned his shirt. And it was new. Unbuttoning Bill’s shirt. Kissing Bill’s shoulders delicately, cherishing every single touch like he knew he wouldn’t be able to do it for long. Except in that moment, it seemed he would do it for a long time. Every time Bill kissed him back, he prayed secretly for their intimacy to last forever. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Bill was eager and passionate but gentle that night, Jim’s first night in bed. He kissed the man passionately right afterwards and they both smiled widely, like they had just discovered the greatest virtue of mankind. Jim had. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>A single tear rolled down his cheek as he held a sleepy Bill Haydon in his arms. Jim Prideaux was happy. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>Peut-on jamais savoir par où commence</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>Et quand finit l'indifférence…</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Autumn had just arrived in Oxford, he remembered clearly. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p><span>—</span> <span>You bastard! Give it back! </span><span>— Bill had swiftly stolen his scarf and was now some steps ahead of Jim's way.</span></p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>— </span>
  <span>What did you say, Jim boy? </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>— </span>
  <span>My scarf, give it back! </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>— </span>
  <span>Come get it, pretty boy </span>
  <span>— </span>
  <span>Bill said in his nonchalant manner, with a smirk.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Jim stopped walking for a second to look at the image. Bill Haydon, in the middle of a crowded street, looking right back at him, nothing but excitement in his eyes. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>There was no one else in the street at that moment, not for them. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>With a shy smile on his face, Jim Prideaux could see the other man was smiling back at him too. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>— </span>
  <span>Bill! </span>
  <span>— he shouted, chasing the man down the street, captivated by their own sort of mission. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>Passe l'automne vienne l'hiver</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>Et que la chanson de Prévert…</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>On a cold winter’s night, he opened his eyes quickly and turned to face the man right next to him on the bed. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>— Bill, what's the matter, huh?</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>— I'm scared, Jim. I'm just...scared </span>
  <span>— Bill was startled, almost panting.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>— What are you scared about? </span>
  <span>— he was able to maintain his calm tone, although he was preoccupied about Bill’s state lately.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>— The future, us, the races! Everything! Bloody everything! </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>— Bill, we can't worry about that now, can we?</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>— Why, you have a more suitable time for me to be concerned? Perhaps during bridge at the club tomorrow?  </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Jim kept silent for a few seconds, just staring at the other man. Then, he touched his arm and kept this way until the panting stopped. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>— I have to worry, Jim. I have to, you see? I have big decisions to make. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>— What do you mean, Bill?</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>— I-...Can you hold me, Jim? </span>
  <span>— tears were coming out of his eyes — </span>
  <span>Hold me like as long as I’m in your arms, there’s no world outside. No wars, no sides. Only you and me, only-</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Jim pulled his body closer, adjusting his chin on the top of Bill's hair, caressing his back gently. He could feel Bill’s tears on his chest and he didn’t sleep until Bill was peacefully asleep. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>— </span>
  <span>Nothing's gonna hurt you as long as I live, Bill </span>
  <span>— he whispered that night.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Jim poured the third glass of vodka. Rain started to fall outside the trailer and he watched it fall, just like he used to in the days of yore.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>Cette chanson 'Les Feuilles Mortes'</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>S'efface de mon souvenir…</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>— </span>
  <span>My boy! What happened to you? </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>— </span>
  <span>I met that presumptuous jerk who talked poorly about your art exhibition </span>
  <span>— Jim said, cleaning the blood coming out of his nose — And told him some truths.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>— Jim! </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>—Don’t mind, he took one too. A well deserved one.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>— </span>
  <span>Oh Jim...Seat right here, I’m going to clean that mess. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Bill softly cleaned the blood from his face, concentraded in every single move. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>— Sure you’re not going to be a doctor, Mr. Haydon? </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>— No, my dear — his eyes brightened — I have bigger plans for us. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>With a clever smile on his face, Bill laid down on Jim’s lap to read his book that rainy afternoon and occasionally caressed his lover’s arms. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>— Alright then — Jim smiled with the innocence that nothing could ever change what they had. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>Et ce jour-là mes amours mortes</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>En auront fini de mourir...</span>
  </em>
  <em>
    
  </em>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>— Jim boy! What a match you played! </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>— Really? I could say the same about you.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>—  Is that so? </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>— Bill, Jim, let me take a picture! — Bertie Kensington shouted in the middle of the field, holding his camera carefully, ready to snap a shot of the inseparables. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Bill placed his arm around Jim’s shoulders, the way he naturally used to do in those casual Oxford days. Jim held him and both smiled at the camera. One picture was shot. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>—Only you to make me feel happy to be surrounded by mud, Jim boy — Bill whispered in his ear — Only you.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>— Another one, lads — Bertie shouted.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Jim turned his face to look at the man he loved, the man he would always love. Bill had a beam on his face, making him even more dazzling than he already was. He smiled at the view precisely when the camera captured the moment. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>Et ce jour-là mes amour mortes</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>En auront fini de mourir…</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>The image would be in his mind as his love for Bill Haydon would be forever registered in a photograph. A photograph he never got back after Budapest. After-</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He stopped the record. And as the rain kept pouring, tears rolled down his cheeks until he was asleep.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>[...]</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“What was the point of his life, anyway?”, he thought as he woke up.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>That was a dangerous question for a man who had a rifle resting underneath his bed.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>A knock on the trailer’s door. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>— Sir! — Roach knocked once again, interrupting his thoughts completely this time. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>He sighted, wiping the tears from his face.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>— Yes, Jumbo? — he said, doing his best not to sound rude as he opened the door.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>— Well, sir, Simon and Charles kept mocking me at breakfast today and I don’t feel good so I was thinking, sir...Can I drive the Alvis today, sir? </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>He could see tears forming on Roach’s eyes. He could be a (heart)broken spy, a ghost of a man filled with memories from the past, but at that very moment, his life had an impact on somebody else's. That was a point. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>— Sure, Jumbo. Let me get the key.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>La Chanson de Prévert would only play again at night. </span>
</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Thank you for stopping by and reading. Feel free to share your opinion with me, scream or whatever you prefer.</p></blockquote></div></div>
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